A Year Ago January, We Published Ray Russell's Gothic novelette Sardonicus. This month, we are pleased to present his new novelette, Sagittarius, an exotic horror story set in turn-of-the-century Paris and revolving around the Grand Guignol. Between Playboy yarns, Ray has not exactly been sitting on his hands. His first novel, The Case Against Satan, willbe published by Ivan Obolensky later this year: his first volume of short fiction, Sardonicus and Other Stories, has been a sellout everywhere; and he has written several feature films, some in release, some in production, some in preparation. They include Zotz! (a comedy starring Tom Poston), The Soft Sell (for Tony Curtis), The Premature Burial (starring Ray Milland), Mr . Sardonicus (reviewed in our December 1961 issue). The Old Dark House (horror-satire to be filmed in England) and a top-secret original starkly titled X. Working out of Columbia and Universal-International studios, as well as his Beverly Hills home, Ray tells us he has also completed a legit play, "just to keep busy."
Playboy, March, 1962, Vol. 9, No. 3, Published monthly by HMH Publishing Company, Inc., Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago II, Illinois. Subscriptions: In the U.S., its possessions, the Pan American Union and Canada, $14 for three years, $11 for two years, $6 for one year. Elsewhere Add $3 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for New Subscriptions and Renewals. Change of Address: Send both old and new addresses to playboy, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago II, Illinois, and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director, Jules Kase, Eastern Advertising Manager, 720 Fifth Ave., New York 19, New York, CI 5-2620; Branch Offices: Chicago, Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., MI 2-1000, Joe Fall, Midwestern Advertising Manager; Los Angles, 8721 Beverly BLVD., OL 2-8790, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager; San Fransico, 111 Sutter St., YU 2-7994, Robert E. Stephens, Manager; Detroit, 705 Stephenson Building, 6560 Cass Ave., TR 5-7250; Southeastern Florida and Caribbean representative, Pirine a Brown, 1722 Rhodes-Haverty Bldg., Atlanta 3, GA., JA 2-8113.
Among the laurels of fame, few have been bestowed on Playboy's brow with greater regularity than the nettled wreath of satire. During our eight-plus years of publication, some two dozen brightly and dimly wit lampoons (mostly undergraduate efforts, with unflinching titles ranging from Plowboy to Layboy) have held up the fun-house mirror to our urban-oriented editorial image.
Arthur C. Clarke's large and loyal following of science-fictionniks will want to lay hands on From the Ocean, From the Stars (Harcourt, Brace & World, $4.50), a collection of two novels and 24 short stories set in deepest depths, limitless space, and on just plain Earth. The City and the Stars turns the clock ahead to the distant future, and points the astro compass toward remote specks of the Universe; The Deep Range takes us whale-herding in the ocean's caverns; and the short stories speed, like spaceships yet uninvented, here, there, every where. The imaginatively literate Mr. Clarke, a long-time Playboy favorite (see his Hazards of Prophecy on page 51), collects well; his subjects and moods range and change, and the pleasure of his company rarely palls.
Mort Sahl on Relationships ... (Reprise) is an acrid asSahlt on a whole covey of sitting ducks, and Mort's potent shot almost always hits its mark. He defines an intellectual girl: "She licks envelopes for the Democratic Party"; suggests a new symbol for the Post Office to replace the Pony Express rider: "A student sorting mail over the Christmas holidays"; translates his trying to dig up a date as "I'm going to search for the perfect woman"; pinpoints an aggressive girl as "One who calls her own cab"; distills a summit meeting between NK and JFK down to "Dad, may I have the keys to the car?"; capsules the CIA's foreign policy: "It almost coincides with that of the USA" and describes the Playmate as "The girl in the middle of Playboy you can remove and assemble." There are several longish monologs on a writing assignment for Ladies' Home Journal and his misadventures with the filming of Advise and Consent, which are suffused with the mordant product of Mort's whiplash wit.
Tennessee Williams' lone novel, The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone (1950), tells the story of a middle-aged American actress, retired to Rome, whose well-heeled loneliness makes her prey to heels. By casting Vivien Leigh as Mrs. Stone, the film has made this not-very-likely tale altogether incredible. Granted, Miss Leigh is no longer Scarlett O'Hara, but the notion of her suffering for want of male companionship in Rome or anyplace else eludes belief. Still, if you can accept this premise, the rest goes smoothly enough -- although José Quintero, in his first try at film directing, doesn't match Williams' pace and economy. Lotte Lenya, as a countess-procuress who works for room-and-bawd, supplies a slightly self-conscious flavor of depravity. Warren Beatty, who got small chance to be splendid in Splendor in the Grass, is happier on the Appian Way; his young Italian aristocrat is convincing--even to the accent. The delicate Miss Leigh puts her creative all into depicting desperation, but we just can't buy the idea that this Roman Stone would gather moss.
My problem is a highly personal one which has given me cause for considerable soul-searching this past month. To state it as bluntly as possible: once a couple become engaged, is it wrong for them to express their love in the most direct and natural way possible? I can sympathize (intellectually) with a girl's reluctance to sleep with a man who offers her no promise of future security. But if the guy comes through with a ring and a pledge of lifelong affection, why shouldn't she prove her own love by immediate participation in an act that is quite obviously inevitable? In other words, why wait? --J. B., New London, Connecticut.
A pair of American sartorial classics--the double-breasted and the two-button suits--have reemerged into the limelight looking smarter than ever. Updated and adapted to the reed-slim silhouette, they promise to complement single-breasted, three-button wardrobes with a look of venturesome impeccability. To the fashion-wise male who regards attire as an indispensable factor in social and professional achievement as well as a manifestation of esthetic judgment, these contemporized styles offer a unique opportunity to combine distinctive self-expression with tasteful self-restraint.
Before one attempts to set up in business as a prophet, it is instructive to see what success others have made of this dangerous occupation -- and it is even more instructive to see where they have failed.
Since its debut last October in the heart of the Crescent City's Vieux Carré--just off legendary Bourbon Street--the 727 Rue Iberville branch of Playboy Clubs International has become the swingingest boite in a town noted for its unstinting devotion to food and fun around the clock.
It took me a month to convince Clara that she was too beautiful and too fine a girl to work in Queen Lil's whorehouse. Thus on a night in May, Clara came to live in my attic room whose lone window overlooked the Chicago River and the bridge lights swimming in it like Coleridge's fiery snakes.
You Chipmunk with Crocodile Eyes, you silverfish with cockroach shell, you creeping ape and armpit-tickling baboon, you prune-poisoning pit worm, you river rat of Riverside Drive, you spark of bubbling cheese (causing dreaded pizza-mouth), you crab with clappers and grinding jaw, you skinny beast from mama's lair, you itchy babbler with a head for a heart, you bat-winged cruiser among dog-walking fillies, you mongrel, you slug, you logic-chopping ranter, you Dan Shaper, you ...
Love as a conviction, as an attachment to someone or even to something, can be a profound individual experience. I don't happen to believe that it is the most profound or significant feeling that a human being can have in life. But when it is authentic, when it is too much at times for the person who feels it, when it shakes us and becomes almost too much for the inadequate language we have for our feelings, then it is certainly not to be discussed lightly and is properly nobody's business but our own. Nobody else would really understand it. In the deepest sense love is incommunicable, since by taking us out of ourselves it forces us to find words for feelings that usually are unexpected and often are not even wanted. Our attachment --when it is genuine, when it starts in a certain pain--can be different in sensation from anything we have known. That is why love, when we really love, can be actively disturbing; for once we are concerned with the object of our love and less with ourselves. In that flight from ourselves as the usual center of the world, there is certainly no guarantee that our love will be reciprocated, that it will last, that it will even be known.
Reaffirming our faith in the good-neighbor policy this March is a picturesque citizen of British Columbia named Pamela Anne Gordon, a north-of-the-border miss who receives our vote as the most impressive tourist attraction of the year and signs in as our first Canadian Playmate. Pixyish (5'1") Pam has spent her successfully formative years in the Pacific port of Vancouver, where she now clearly contributes more than her share to the spectacular local seascapes. Weighing in at 104 girlish pounds, Miss March's decorative attributes include soft blonde hair, emerald eyes, a galaxy of saucy freckles, and a figure that is Junoesque in miniature. An easy-does-it lass, she is an avid collector of China figurines, and admits to a fondness for historical novels, shoot-'em-up flicks, and secret crush, Raymond Burr (TV's Perry Mason). Cheerful Pam's social calendar is understandably full, though apropos dating she warns that bossy and overly jealous types are definitely not her cup of tea. Among her favorite outdoor Canadian capers are swimming and horseback riding; in addition, she's a striking bowler with a 135 average. Having served as girl Friday for a number of lucky firms, our 19-year-old Playmate is now a receptionistfor a Vancouver construction company where, needless to say, her own cantilevered construction (39-23-35) receives the warmest reception of all. Despite her dramatic appearance, Pamela has no theatrical ambitions--her main aim in life at the moment is to further her education at the University of British Columbia. As an educational dividend of our own, we refer all Fine Arts students to the accompanying foldout view of our petitely prodigious Miss March.
After Decades of almost exclusive use by blue-blazered romantic leads with blindingly white teeth, the elegant ascot has resumed its rightful place on the necks of the knowledgeable. In patterns plain and paisley, colors cool and vivid, this Continental classic is sartorially correct once again, imparting what no other single accessory can: a smart look of discriminating leisureliness. Trimly tailored with stitched pleats for a snug fit, the modern ascot is as easy as pie to tie (as demonstrated here): cross right end over left, fold other end up and over, line up each half, tuck neatly into the open neck of a contrasting sport shirt or white oxford à la Fred Astaire, and plunge--with or without carefully coordinated jacket--into the sophisticated social swim. Observe the compleat ascot wardrobe, all of imported silk foulard, top left: first pair by Liberty of London, $7.50 each; second by Handcraft, $5; third by Reis of New Haven, $6. Top right is by Liberty, $7.50. Center: left, by Reis, $6; right, by Handcraft, $5. Bottom: left, by Liberty, $7.50; right, by Handcraft, $5.
I recently had occasion to give a dinner party in London for a rather widely assorted group of friends and acquaintances. Among the guests was an outspoken Socialist I've known for many years. When the table conversation lagged, he seized the opportunity to deliver a political monolog, expressing views which were more than slightly left of center.
Peace of mind through preparedness In spite of tranquilizers and new social agencies such as The Protestant Federation for the Worried, The Catholic Bomb Nerve Centre and The Jewish Home for the Nervous, many persons can only find relief from worry by making preparations for a possible attack. The following suggestions should remedy many apprehensions.
Baumgarden and the Maestro had been friends long before they faced each other, chair to podium, on a concert stage. Jan Clausing had been a vibrant 30 when they had met in the rehearsal halls of the Vienna Opera House in 1917: Clausing a bassoonist and Baumgarden, then as now, a violinist. But Clausing had abandoned his instrument to study orchestration; he had made a storm of his musical career, while Baumgarden was content with the even climate of mediocrity. Now Clausing was a maestro, a conductor, with 30 years of the baton behind him, and before him, faceless in the regiment of violins, was Carl Baumgarden.
In the Urban Fiefdom of Toho Pictures in Tokyo, Akira Kurosawa is known as "The Emperor," and is addressed by his subordinates in the honorific language accorded only to dignitaries ranking just below hereditary nobility. To them, and to Kurosawa himself, such deference is no more than fitting homage to the man whose powerful direction and co-authorship of Rashomon, Venice Film Festival triumph of 1951, endowed the Japanese film industry almost overnight with a distinguished international reputation. Since this creative dawn, Kurosawa's own rising sun has radiated around the world with an unbroken skein of trophy winners such as the poignant Ikiru and his magnum opus, The Seven Samurai. On sets as sacrosanct as Buddhist temples, the 51-year-old ex-painter wields his imperial powers with less than benevolent despotism; but so far he has succeeded in transmuting the base metal of traditionally uncommercial themes--wherein vice triumphs as often as virtue--into solid gold at the box office. His latest alchemies: I Live in Fear, an explosive anti-atomic-war drama; The Lower Depths, a compelling recast of Gorky's mordant play; Throne of Blood, a Kabuki-style version of Macbeth staged with shattering power against the savage landscape of medieval Japan; and Yojimbo, 1961 Venice Festival winner, commemorating for him a decade in the cinematic vanguard. As to the next decade, the great director merely smiles and points to his head. "I have many shoots up here. Who knows which will blossom?"
At the Premiere of his latest film in Milan, director Federico Fellini was immensely gratified by audience reaction: he was spat upon and challenged to a duel on his way out of the theater. To the 42-year-old moviemaker, turbulent fountainhead of Italy's cinematic New Wave, the seal of public disapproval had always signified a sure-fire hit. He was right again: the movie, La Dolce Vita -- his harrowing, mesmeric passion play of ennui and eroticism in Roman cafe society -- has earned a niche in the cinematic hall of fame, is also destined to become one of the biggest grossers in film history. With Vita, as with his other award winners (Open City, Paisan, La Strada, Cabiria), the fatal flaw of many men has been Fellini's great strength: egocentric self-assurance. Assembling his dark visions into a skeletal script, he directs intuitively, improvising as he shoots, in a style part neorealistic, part impressionistic, part caricature. The result is intentionally theatrical and overpowering, saturated with the vitality of a baroque and fertile imagination. His next venture: an extension of Vita's philosophic explorations. If it's as bitter-Dolce as its precursor, Fellini will no doubt be damned and deified as usual. He wouldn't have it any other way.
When his name was added to the list of Hollywood personalities ill-starred in the House Un-American Activities hearings of the late Forties, it seemed certain that Jules Dassin--then ranked among America's most gifted postwar directors -- had cued the clackboard for his last take. In 1951, the black-listed moviemaker finally expatriated himself to Paris in search of film work. He found it. With the crackling suspense drama Rififi in 1955, the Connecticut-born, ex-Borscht Belt actor demonstrated compellingly that his deft directorial hand had lost none of its authority in translation. It remained only for He Who Must Die in 1958 to establish him as one of filmdom's leading "foreign" writer-directors. His star in this moving allegory of the Crucifixion was a little-known, luminously vital Greek actress named Melina Mercouri. The following year he wrote, directed and starred with her in the earthy and ebullient Never on Sunday, which became the Oscar-winning foreign hit of 1960, and Dassin suddenly found his services as sedulously sought as they had once been snubbed. He has since cast the mercurial Mercouri as his leading lady in real as well as reel life, and with her has recently completed SS Phaedra, their third collaboration. For this sad-eyed, saturnine-faced man, who began his career on New York's Lower East Side as a director in the Yiddish theater, life has come full circle: he has returned to America to direct another play, opening this month -- Isle of Children with Patty Duke. In a switch on that old maxim about March, he comes in like a conquering lion where he left like a sacrificial lamb.
Encouraged by a newly permissive attitude on the part of censors and the courts toward undraped film fare, Hollywood's independent producers are continuing their happy preoccupation with what are known in the trade as "nudies": low-budget, lightly plotted epidermal epics that concentrate with disarming directness on unfettered femmes. Latest entrant in the long pink line of altogetherness films is a sprightly exercise in buffoonery called Paradisio, an effort noteworthy not only for its unabashed interest in birthday fashions, but because it is the first nude-wave film that shows the professional touch of an experienced producer. Aside from avoiding clumsy camera work, the picture is also the first of its ilk to include synchronized sound. But its real fun lies in a corny but effective gimmick: 3-D glasses enable the audience to examine in depth a variety of females au naturel. Far from being a mere flesh in the pan, the film is likely to herald a spate of proficient productions which will treat the naked truth with equal freedom. More, it is indicative of an industry-wide trend that is steadily closing the gap between nudie and more legitimate movies--an endowment policy which benefits those who enjoy seeing an unclothed female wander through their flicks.
The Grand National Steeplechase--an event as emphatically British as Trooping the Colours and The Lord Mayor's Show -- is at once the longest, the most dangerous and the most famous race of its kind in the world. Run at Aintree, a tiny hamlet five miles outside the industrial sprawl of Liverpool, the Grand National poses a formidable equine and human challenge: 4-1/2 miles of obstacle-studded turf, requiring endurance in the horses, courage and skill in the good men up. Since its inception in 1839, the race has annually gripped the attention of the nation, and drawn to its rural grounds an aristocratic throng eager to participate in the fashionable climax of Aintree's March meeting. Joining the elegant Establishmentarians, extravagantly hatted socialites and capped tipsters at a recent running of the Grand National was Playboy's virtuoso artist LeRoy Neiman, continuing his successful Continental quest for paletteable subjects.
A Certain Old Merchant married a young woman and exacted one promise from her on their wedding day: "No lips but mine must ever touch thine," he said. "Promise me this and you will have all the wealth your heart desires."
The name of the game is Teevee Jeebies, our gala film festival of late-night vintage video outrageously updated with dub-it-yourself dialog. As you should know by now, any number can play: next time you turn on the tube, just turn down the audio and invent your own unabashed ad libs--the further out the better--just as we've done below and on the following pages.
Heading Our Travel Log for the merry month of May are two countries that prove the I's do indeed have it: Israel and Ireland. Each is still relatively untrammeled by footloose tourists; each offers special pleasures to the man who would expand his customary horizons. The spanking new Desert Inn at Beer-sheba, for example, boasts all the resort amenities, from swimming pool to squash courts; the Dolphin House at coastal Shavei Zion provides a relaxed country clubbish ambiance within autoing distance of Acre, an exotic Crusader city whose Oriental bazaars are shadowed by hoary fortress walls; and in the palmy town of Nahariya there are a number of small, immaculate hotels set betwixt a beach of white Phoenician sand and lively on-the-rocks night spots such as the Penguin, the Casino Café, the Weiden-baum and Freddy Dura's.